


Bespoke Love

by Regarklipop



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bespoke Suits, M/M, Sartorial arousal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:51:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6224695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regarklipop/pseuds/Regarklipop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's desperate for alone time, an extremely rare event which leads to him making an agreement to find a suit for the Brits in exchange for some quiet time (hopefully without fans, as much as he loves them). </p><p>Dumped on Savile Row and panicking, he meets Zayn Malik, master tailor of a brand new shop that's a step up from a cat's face. Zayn, desperate to ensure his new business doesn't fail, is elated when Harry Styles nearly falls into his shop needing a suit for the Brits. </p><p>Of course it's never that simple when feelings start to get involved. In this case, the love is definitely bespoke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cat's Face

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to @autopsyofwebs for helping beta this! I've got most of the rest of this done but it's been sitting for two years in my wip folder so I figure I'll just put it out to give myself the boot to finish. Please note that because I'm not finished the work THE RATING MAY BE SUBJECT TO CHANGE. Any definitions will be at the beginning of the chapter :)
> 
> Bespoke: is a suit that is made start to finish according to one individual's specific measurements. The process is extremely work intensive and requires (usually) many different people with different talents to put together. A bespoke suit usually takes a minimum of 52 hours and three fittings to perfect. 
> 
> A cat's face: is a small shop that usually operates out of the owner's house and rarely on the ground floor of something. 
> 
> A cutter: is the person who creates and cuts the design and fabric for the suit and usually is the one to interact with the customer

Savile Row certainly doesn’t have the same ostentation as Fifth Avenue, or the hustle and bustle of Rue de Rivoli, but there’s a certain something about it. A feeling of refinement and skill, an understanding that being able to purchase something on this road means you’re either wealthy enough to drop three thousand pounds on a suit, or the importance of your dress is enough that you’ll find a way to drop three thousand pounds on a suit. 

Harry definitely falls into the former category. He can appreciate fashion, certainly, but it’s not normal for him to buy any sort of complete outfit when mix and match of various YSL has always worked as dress code for him. For once in his life, though, he needs to get away from being Harry Styles; and what better way to escape from the hustle and bustle of being a popstar than fulfilling a (fairly recent) dream of owning a custom suit? 

This hadn’t been his first plan; the first plan was just to escape his hotel and handlers and wander around London for a bit. Of course, Harry couldn’t plan a secret disappearance if he tried, and so he was caught by his manager after he’d tripped out of an elevator and right into him. The only deal he could strike after that was that he was allowed out on the condition that he find a suit for the Brit Awards. The bespoke thing had been tacked on as a last ditch effort to get more time on his own. 

So here he is, dropped off by security with the only advice from Paul being not to get in trouble (after Harry had begged to go alone) and some vague advice from his stylist Caroline on where to go for a suit once he actually got to Savile Row. 

Harry can only be thankful that at least Savile Row is completely deserted at this time of day. No mobs of girls to grab at his jewelry, no one to tweet his location; only the historical lines of endless tailoring shops to look at. It’s nearly unsettlingly quiet, but Harry is on a mission and people would probably distract him from it. He reminds himself, too, that the entire point of this exercise was to have some quiet time away from fame.

The only problem, though, is that Harry’s criteria for clothing usually falls within ‘is it comfortable?’, ‘is there a pattern?”, and ‘will Caroline get angry at me for wearing this?’ (he usually ignores that last one), so he doesn’t have much thought towards what makes for a ‘good suit’. He comes across this inexperience honestly, as Harry hasn’t had to pick out his own suit since the ill-fitting jacket and trousers of his year ten dance, months before he’d shot to fame as half of the duet One Direction.

He’s about half a block from where he was dropped off before he starts to seriously think about what he is looking to do. It’s likely that no matter what store he walks into along this road he’ll get an incredible suit, but Harry remembers Caroline saying that the tailor making it should be someone he can cultivate a relationship with. It’s not particularly useful advice, though, because it’ll likely call for going into every shop on the street until Harry finds someone that he likes. 

Which leads him to the question of whether he’ll even be allowed into half these shops? His current outfit is a pair of black skinny jeans with holes in the knees that he’s worn for the past three days, a plaid shirt (sleeves still, miraculously, intact) over a t-shirt, a very expensive winter coat, and a beanie. Does he need an appointment? All this contemplating does nothing but chip away at Harry’s confidence.

Harry realises how enormously Not A Good Idea this whole tailoring thing is about three-quarters of the way down the block. What had he been thinking, saying he’d look for a suit without help? Harry, whose greatest contribution to the world of fashion was wearing two plaid shirts at the same time.

He leans against a wall to gather his thoughts and courage. It shouldn’t be difficult. Harry’s great with people, spectacular even, there should be no reason why he’ll struggle with such a simple task as finding a tailor.

The door two inches from him opens with a cheerful jingle. 

“I’m so sorry sir, I didn’t mean to… are you alright?” The yelp and jump nearly leaves Harry sprawled on the sidewalk, but soft hands help steady him. Lovely soft hands.

“Yeah, fine, sorry to have stood in front of your shop,” there are three mannequins in the window, one with a suit jacket that has white thread all over it. Harry thinks it looks pretty neat.

“It’s fine. Cup of tea as an apology?” He’s looking at Harry encouragingly. Harry wonders if the man recognises him. 

“Sounds great. Harry Styles by the way,” it’s the eyes that convince Harry. 

“I know,” a cheeky grin. “Zayn Malik,” definitely the eyes. Earnest and hopeful and big and brown, and every one of Harry’s weaknesses.

When Mr. Malik gets Harry sat down in an antique armchair, it gives Harry a moment to gather his bearings while the man disappears into the backroom for a tea set.

The shop isn’t nearly as big as some of the other ones that he’d seen through windows along the Row. Just the main room with a long table and some mismatched but good looking antique furniture, a pedestal with a mirror, and two large work tables which take up the majority of the space. Harry thought the saw a till behind one of the tables but isn’t sure. He gets up to check and then ends up checking what's behind the door that Mr. Malik didn't disappear through (water closet). He's carefully pawing through a stack of ties on a shelving unit when Mr. Malik returns.

“Is there anything else I can help you with Mr. Styles?” Harry turns to Mr. Malik, smiling bashfully and acknowledging that he's been caught in his snooping. The man has a lovely mismatched tea set and a small plate of biscuits and Harry finds it all rather charming. 

“Um, I’m looking for for a suit Mr. Malik, for the Brit Awards,” Harry sits down again and hauls a leg onto his knee, barely avoiding knocking into the coffee table. He reaches for a cup of tea and some milk. “Only... I’m not sure what exactly I should be looking for? See usually they just have the suit ready for me to try on so that I match with Niall, you know Niall Horan right?” Mr. Malik nods a quirk on his lips as he sips from his tea. 

“Only I really needed a walk. So me and my manager, Paul, came to an agreement that I could go for a walk if I didn’t stir the pot too much and if I came back with a suit. The problem is that I have no clue what I need to do in order to get a suit…” He trails off. Niall has warned him about his rambling stories to nowhere. Mr. Malik doesn’t seem bored or irritated two points in his favor.

“Well Mr. Styles,” “Harry” “Harry. I can certainly make you a suit, but it will take about a month to complete when all is said and done. I do everything, up to and including pockets-” Harry has no idea why that’s something of note, but says nothing. He is paying attention, sort of, and he hears something about prices being upwards of two to five thousand pounds, but he can’t help his eyes as they take in the rest of Mr. Malik for the first time. 

He’s in a vest, trousers and tie, his jacket hung carefully on a nearby rack. Everything looks so good on him that even Harry, who knows nothing about tailoring, can see the work that has gone into it. It doesn’t hurt that the man wearing it makes the suit look like a million pounds. He manages to pull himself back into the conversation just as Mr. Malik is wrapping up.

“If you decide to get a suit from me, Harry, I’ll definitely help you make every decision about it, so there’s no need to feel nervous. I’ll also help you with any accessories you might like,” Mr. Malik has set his teacup down and is turning his full attention towards Harry. It feels special to be the centre of Mr. Malik’s attention, and even if Harry’s confused about the suit he’s definitely up for more of that. 

“So Harry, would you like me to make you a suit?” Mr. Malik looks at Harry, waits for him to say something, and Harry feels his mouth goes dry. He can barely keep his eyes off Mr. Malik’s thin wrists and broad shoulders, Harry wonders if he’ll ever be able to focus again with Mr. Malik in the room. Focus. The man is asking if Harry wants a suit from him. Does he?

“That would be... amazing” falls slowly out of Harry’s mouth, and the smile Mr. Malik gives him makes Harry sweat in his YSL button-up. Harry sticks out his hand.

“Harry Styles. Please call me Harry.” Mr. Malik tentatively takes it.

“Zayn Malik, please call me Zayn,” he looks right into Harry’s eyes, a tentative smile; Harry sees the tip of a tongue peaking in between teeth.

What has Harry gotten himself into?


	2. Measurements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The making of a suit starts with a fitting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully everything makes sense timeline wise. 
> 
> I was most worried about what the hell I was going to put Harry in... I hummed and hawed over it for a while and I'm still not sure it's what I want to go with but in for a penny in for a pound!

Harry isn’t expecting to start the process right away, but Zayn says that time is of the essence and if Harry needs more alterations he’s going to need the time to do them. With the Brits still four weeks away, Harry isn’t really all that worried, but he knows absolutely nothing about what goes into a bespoke suit, so he submits to Zayn’s wisdom in the matter. 

So here he is, after Zayn insisted on getting more tea, sitting on a beautiful couch and slowly making his way through some of the fabric swatches Zayn had picked out for him. Right now, Zayn is rifling through some example pieces to decide on the cut of Harry’s blazer. When Harry had asked about trousers, Zayn had simply raised an eyebrow and said that while there were a couple of styles, Harry would be getting flat-front trousers whether he wanted them or not. 

“I could always wear jeans too. I’ve done that before-” Harry’s voice drifts off at the at the unimpressed look Zayn throws at him. 

“Harry, I am more than aware of some of the sartorial choices you make. I’m going to tell you right now that if I let you wear a pair of worn out jeans with a bespoke blazer, consider my career over because it will kill me.” Harry doesn’t want Zayn’s career to be over because of inopportune death. He widens his eyes as best he can at Zayn and tries to put as much apology into his look as possible. Zayn huffs, but a grin curls the corners of his lips. 

“I will be putting you in a slim-fit, flat-front trouser for the good of all humankind,” Harry nods in quasi-understanding before smiling brightly. Zayn is kind, and clearly playful despite the shy exterior he has. Harry wants to charm more of that playfulness out of him. Even if he has to do something a little stupid to do it.

He’s not quite sure how charming he is right now when all this talk of trousers means he’s suddenly focused on Zayn’s. When Zayn turns back around to look through blazers, Harry takes a moment to survey the way they fall effortlessly down his legs, the shape of them muddled to ‘thin’ because of the way the fabric drapes. He’s got no arse, but the length of his torso makes up for it and the span of his back under his waistcoat makes Harry’s hands sweat and his mouth dry.

After setting aside three jackets, Zayn makes his way back over to the couch Harry’s sitting on, stopping at one of the work tables to grab another booklet of fabrics as well as a box of buttons set in velvet. 

“Any ideas on fabric?” Zayn asks as he pours the tea, and Harry gets a closer look at the wrists he was admiring before, his legs jiggling at Zayn’s proximity. He suddenly forgets every swatch he’s looked at and is forced to cover for his own inattentiveness.

“Umm, I like plaid? And comfort.” When Zayn chuckles at his comment, Harry feels himself glow. He’s glad that he bumped into Zayn; he can’t help but feel giggly, and he can barely stifle a chuckle when Zayn hands him his tea. He can’t help but note how ridiculous his big hands look around the the delicate china. 

“S’not a bad thing to have a preference. Like, I’m sure you’d look great in a blanket pattern. Gimme’ a second.” Zayn flips back through the patterns and pulls out a swatch which Harry had gone by. A lovely light grey blocked in by a quasi-plaid pattern done in a darker grey that Zayn holds up next to Harry’s face. 

“Blanket plaid. Not quite as loud as what you’ve got on, but it should do the trick,” and it is lovely, but it doesn’t feel very Harry. Zayn seems to pick up on it immediately. 

“We’ll find something else. We can always go a little bit wilder on the handkerchief and the tie as well, if you want. Until then…” Zayn bites his lip, paging through the second book that he’s brought with him and holding up various colours to Harry’s face.

“What about this one? Should bring out your eyes and I like the contrast with your hair. Thoughts?” Zayn’s picked out a dark blue-green colour, definitely different than the run of the mill grey or black most men will be wearing. 

“We’ll have to be careful with the accessories to make sure you don’t end up in Legolas or Christmas territory, but I think this will be a little different. Colourful suits are also very in right now. Did you see the suit that John Boyega wore to the Star Wars opening? Of course one of the designers on the row, Ozwald Boateng, has been doing amazing things with colours for… sorry. Got a bit caught up there,” Zayn looks embarrassed.

“It’s fine. Niall always says I ramble too much. At least you ramble about something you love and are passionate about,” Zayn grins in response. Then clears his throat and turns back to the colour. 

“It’s good too ‘cause this is in a velvet. Can’t have you freezin’ on the red carpet, yeah?” Zayn’s accent has slowly slipped out of a BBC standard and into a Northern accent that nearly has Harry cupping his own cheeks. He hopes it’s a sign that Zayn’s relaxing enough around Harry to let it slip. 

“Let’s get you into a jacket, yeah? These won’t fit you completely proper, but it’s good to see ‘em on. If you wait by the mirrors, I’ll be a second.” Zayn is already walking towards the jackets he set aside earlier, so Harry trots over to where the mirrors are stood about.

“I know you said you don’t know much about suit styles, but I’m just gonna’ point out two things. The main differences in these three jackets are the amount of buttons down the front, and the lapels. There are some other smaller differences, but it’s what you want for the overall look that’s important,” as he’s saying this, Zayn reaches for the first jacket, suddenly stops, and looks Harry over with frown that has Harry squirming. 

“What is it?” Harry fidgets under Zayn’s scrutiny.

“I can’t have you try on a jacket in the shirt you’re wearing right now. It won’t sit right. Um…” Zayn replaces the jacket on the bar. 

“If you don’t mind, I’ve got a french cuffed shirt for you to put on while we do this.” He retrieves and hands Harry a button down from another sample rack. It shouldn’t be as tempting as it is to do a striptease, but Harry has never been ashamed of nudity so he’s throws Zayn a cheeky grin and pretends he’s giving a performance, hitching his plaid shirt of slowly. It gets a quiet laugh from Zayn, so it’s all he can ask for. 

He’s glad to have worn a white t-shirt underneath his top today, and hopes Zayn won’t notice how his nipples have gone hard in the marginally cooler air of the shop. It’s a bit of a task getting the french cuff shirt into place, but Zayn’s deft fingers easily slip a pair of cuff-links into the holes. There’s a momentary pause of how to get the shirt into Harry’s extremely tight pants.

“We’re just checking for collars right now so as much as it pains me, you can keep it un-tucked. Thank god you’ll have a good pair of trousers for your next fitting,” Zayn takes a second to brush and tug the shirt into place before he goes back for the first jacket. The jacket is black and the lapels have a sharp notch in them. There’s three buttons down the front.

“Just take a few moments to see what you like and don’t like about the jacket. My advice would be to also take into account the kind of event that you’re going to and whether this is too formal for your tastes.” 

Zayn had said that choosing a style would be easy, but for Harry it’s twenty minutes of agony. Hands pet Harry’s shoulders to smooth wrinkles, fingers lightly brush his jaw as Zayn checks the fit of the neck; In a particularly tense moment, Zayn’s hands slip inside the front of the blazer to tug at the shirt underneath, his finger gently catching the side of Harry’s nipple. Harry’s sharp inhale is only smothered enough that he can hear a quiet apology from Zayn. 

Harry may not know much about tailoring, but he’s fairly sure he’s not supposed to be as desperately turned on as he is. It’s only the thought that Zayn’s going to have to measure him later for trousers that keeps him under control. What’s even worse is that Zayn’s face remains completely calm as he continues to adjust, staying within the boundaries of his job and nothing else. Harry doesn’t understand how someone who just touched an erect nipple can keep going on with such a straight face.It makes Harry feel a bit guilty that he is this flustered when Zayn is just a man who is doing what he has to do for his craft and to keep his customer from feeling uncomfortable. 

By the end of the test-run, Harry is no closer to deciding which blazer he wants then he was before. When Zayn asks him about it, he guesses.

“Um, I liked the one with the…” Harry gestures at the collar of his jacket. “I think you called it a shawl? I’ve worn those before and I think they look pretty good,” he has absolutely no clue whether it’s the blazer that looks best on him, and can only hope he doesn’t look stupid when he hits the red carpet. Not that Zayn would let him look stupid of course. Hopefully. He might if Harry doesn’t get his act together.

He nearly sighs in desperate relief when Zayn nods along with his decision.

“‘s the best one to go with certainly. If you weren’t sure, I would have suggested either that or the peak.” Harry is rewarded with another one of Zayn’s smiles for his decision. He hopes he’ll be making more good decisions in the future. Then Zayn pulls out a tape measure.

“Now we measure you. If you could take off the blazer, shirt, and jeans, we’ll make this quick so we can get started on picking all the other stuff that’s got to get done before I can begin the baste suit.” Zayn whips a curtain across the small area where all the mirrors are. Harry swallows hard, desperately doesn’t make a joke about “baste” and being a master of it, and then sends a quick prayer up to whoever is listening that he’ll make it through this.

\-----

When Harry thinks of measurements, he often remembers reading Harry Potter; how the wand shop had a measuring tape that did everything on its own. At the time, he’d thought it so incredible and wonderful; now, he’s not sure he would take that over Zayn’s hands brushing up against his back, waist, and neck. 

Without the vital protection of his clothing, Harry feels as naked as the day he was born. His t-shirt feels thin and revealing, and his boxer-briefs have never felt less like the thick cotton they are. His cheeks are on fire and the only reason Zayn likely hasn’t noticed is because he’s diligently writing down numbers that only mean something to him.

“If you could lift your arms for a moment?” Zayn slips the tape around his bicep and Harry can’t help but flex teasingly. He gets an amused grunt, but the light tap Zayn gives him makes him relax again.

It’s beautiful watching Zayn do what he does. The focus he has shows in the spark in his eyes and the way his tongue keeps flashing out to wet lips that have gone dry. Harry thinks about buying Zayn some lip balm, but prefers the quick flash of pink from his tongue and also reminds himself how uncomfortable it would be if a man Zayn had met only once gave him a chapstick.

All in all the entire process is going great in terms of the measuring and barely fine in terms of Harry’s mental state. Harry thinks he’s managed to keep his attraction under pretty tight control, that he’ll get through this with something close to poise, and then Zayn says:

“I’m going to do your inseam now. So if you could spread your legs a bit, I’ll measure it quick,” the low voice that’s had Harry at half-mast for the last half-hour has him dutifully spreading his legs while Zayn’s hands run up the length of Harry’s thigh. Harry bites his lip, tries not to gasp when Zayn’s fingers brush far too close to his balls. 

“Stand in your natural position.” Harry brings his legs together, thankful, as he stands pigeon-toed while Zayn takes another couple of measurements.

“That’s it.” Harry sighs as Zayn stands up, folding the tape measure and throwing it around his neck. He writes down the last of the measurements as Harry tries to figure out how to hide a very angry erection in boxer-briefs, finally managing when he thinks about how bad it feels when Niall looks at him sadly and the feeling of getting his dick caught in the zipper of his jeans when he goes to put them on again. 

“We’re all done, you can put your kit back on,” Zayn says, already moving back towards the small seating area. Harry picks up his clothes, trotting along behind him like a lost dog, ignoring the privacy curtain and the fact that he’s still trouser-less. Harry can’t remember the last time it felt like he was the one doing the chasing.

He shakes his head, hiding the motion as arranging his curls before he finally pulls his jeans on. Him and Zayn are going to be absolutely nothing except for customer and tailor. Zayn is going to make him a suit, Harry will pay him for that suit, and then he will hit the red carpet like it’s his job (it is his job). 

Zayn is patiently waiting for him with Harry’s plaid shirt in his grip, and after Harry slides into it, Zayn’s hands immediately attempt to brush it into place. The small scowl on his face must be reserved for only the most serious wrinkles.

Harry was never aware that there was such a thing as wrinkle hatred, now he’s sort of endeared by it.

 

“It’ll take at least five days for me to get your suit to any sort of stage that I would feel comfortable with you trying it on,” Zayn finally says, tugging at the shirt one last time. “Would you prefer I make a housecall and bring the suit? Or is it easier for you to come here?” 

“It’s probably easier if I come here. I’m gonna be in London until the Brits, and it’s always good to get out a bit. If that changes, I can always phone right?” Zayn nods. Harry wants to stay, but he needs to get back so that Paul can look at him as though he shouldn’t be surprised at him for spending over three thousand pounds on a suit, but is. 

The look will probably be mixed with annoyance when he realises that they still don’t even know what Niall is wearing. Maybe Harry can convince Niall to come and get a bespoke suit and then Harry can see Zayn twice as often.

“I’ll just need your phone number so I can let you know when your suit is ready, then I’ll process your payment and get you all set up with a business card and an account.” Zayn still has the sheet of paper with Harry’s measurements, a pencil poised right at the top for some of the most important numbers Harry has. 

“You won’t give it out to anyone will you?” It’s an automatic question, and Harry realises his mistake and winces at the eyebrow Zayn raises at him. He rattles off the numbers, but Zayn doesn’t look annoyed or anything, seems mostly accepting.

“I take privacy very seriously Mr. Styles.” Zayn’s voice isn’t patronising, just matter of fact. “The only person seeing this number will be me,” and that lets Harry breathe calmly. Zayn gets it, even if he isn’t a pop star.

“Sorry,” but Zayn just shrugs and gives Harry a smile, as though it’s not a problem. Maybe it isn’t.

Harry doesn’t even blink when Zayn processes the payment, easily giving his personal information when Zayn puts together his profile. Afterwards he texts his ride to come pick him up and Zayn carefully guides him to the door of the shop. The mid-afternoon light shining through the window is warm for January, and it surprises Harry when he steps out of the warm shop and into the blustery weather after giving thanks and a quick wave to Zayn.

A few days, and he’ll see Zayn again. It puts him in a good enough mood that he’s nearly skipping when he walks to the car that’s pulled around.


	3. French Curve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn knows this will be the suit that make or breaks him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A French Curve is a type of shape and measuring tool used in tailoring and clothing making. 
> 
> I'd also like to specify: Zayn is both a cutter and a tailor. A cutter is the person who speaks with and measures clients and then cuts the design for the piece (thus the name). A tailor deals with the sewing, as well as other things depending on the need.

Zayn is fucked.

Zayn is so so fucked.

Zayn is fucked because Harry Styles has asked him to make him a suit for the Brit Awards and he has less than four weeks to do it and he is doing absolutely everything. He is fucked because he has to make a baste suit in five days and Zayn has an absurd policy of doing minimal, if not zero, machine work on the suits he makes. It’s part of what got him such good grades in school, but it’s also why he had to start his projects days, if not weeks, ahead of some of the other students.

He’d just wanted to be told that he was good. Now he’s going to have one of his suits on the biggest stars on the planet, but only if he can get the bloody thing done in time.

Zayn is also fucked because he’s got a crush on the man who is going to be the recipient of Zayn’s first bespoke Savile Row suit. 

If he can pull this off, there’s a good chance that his clientele will be secured for the next couple of years. If he botches it, all the sweat, blood, tears, and money (his life savings, half his parent’s savings, the loan he’d had to take out) that had gone into this shop would be meaningless.

He can’t just be good, he has to be spectacular.

Zayn wishes he could be frantic, but jumpy hands mean inaccurate lines and crooked cuts, and he can’t allow that. He’s careful when he makes his lines for Harry’s suit, dark strokes on the thick paper he’d pulled from the back. He draws on not just his measurements, but recollections of how Harry’s posture might affect the shape of the fabric, his pencil gliding along the edge of his French curve. 

This is what Zayn loves. Drawing what will become the armor that people wear to do battle. He feels like Edna Mode, like Lucius Fox, like he’s making a superhero suit.

He remembers the hunch in Harry’s shoulders, supplements for the slight lean to the right, and recollects the pigeon toed pose Harry has.

He tries not to remember Harry’s gasp when he’d brushed his nipple. 

Zayn is good at his craft, has no problem finishing the paper pattern in under an hour, carefully cutting and putting aside the thick paper as his scissors slice out the jacket and then the trousers piece by piece.

The thing is, Zayn knows how lucky he is to have even made it to Savile Row. How this is the street that some tailors only dream of being on and how some businesses that have been around for years suddenly disappear in two months. The only reason Zayn is here is because he was blessed to work under one of the best names in the business, and that it was Mr. Adeleye who had helped him make the necessary connections that got him a good deal on the rent for his store. 

Mr. Adeleye had also helped him cut through some of the more traditionalist bs that occasionally haunted the Row. While Mr. Adeleye didn’t work on Savile Row anymore, he’d been more than happy to help his best tailor open a store amongst those who had been tailoring for decades, if not centuries.

Before Harry entered the store, Zayn was looking at three months before he’d either been kicked out of his store for being flat broke or he made enough money to stay here for another few months. He’s only barely making the minimum payments on his loan as it is, and the rent on his flat is a week late. 

But this is all Zayn wants to do, and he knows he’d be devastated if he has to tell his parents that he wasted their money on his life’s dream only to have it fall flat. 

Now though, Harry Styles has helped cover his rent and the bills for this month for the shop. Zayn has some breathing room, and if Harry Styles wears his suit on the red carpet of the Brits, it may mean that Zayn won’t have to worry about rent for a while.

What’s frustrating is that Zayn had done his absolute best to ensure that his old customers had known that he was opening a new store, but many of them just didn’t have the money to spend on the designs Zayn would need to create in order to stay in business. They could afford the thousand pound suit, but three thousand and four thousand pounds was way outside their price range. Even some of Zayn’s ready to wear stuff was outside their price range, so most of the time they’d pick up ties or socks and say good-bye.

Zayn understands, but he’d been relying on customers that already knew him to possibly, once in awhile, pick up a nicer suit than usual. Walk-in traffic is exceedingly difficult when there are so many other more famous names along the Row.

The alternative was, of course, meeting new people; something Zayn is absolutely terrible at. Sure he’s okay on the outside, but his introversion makes it exceptionally difficult to get himself out there. He hadn’t been able to ask Mr. Adeleye to help him either, because this was his project, and he already felt like he had asked too much from the man. 

It was interesting that he'd been so comfortable around Harry Styles, enough that the BBC standard accent he used to make sure he didn’t sound too “down-market” to his (prospective) customers (the men he relied on to feed him would likely take enough issue with his skin without taking his upbringing into account. If they could even make it past his skin).

It’s funny how this shouldn’t have worked out at all. To be honest, if Harry hadn’t stood by his store, apparently radiating an atmosphere calm enough that even Zayn had felt okay approaching him despite his fame, Zayn probably would’ve just gone broke and faded into obscurity after being kicked out of both his store and flat.

He’ll consider himself extremely lucky, and then work to ensure that his luck changes into tangible evidence of his right to success.

He saunters into the backroom, pushing aside various rolls of fabric and carefully labelled bins of buttons on one of the shelves in order to reach the fabric that he and Harry had decided on. It’s on a higher shelf, and he’s halfway up a step ladder when his phone rings.

Tottering between shelf and step, knuckles white on one of the uprights, Zayn manages to get his phone between his ear and shoulder. He carefully orients himself to pull down Harry’s fabric. 

“Zayn Malik Bespoke Tailoring, how may I help you?” It’s a careful dance back down the stepstool, but Zayn manages it, carefully taking the spool of fabric back to his work table.

“Zayn? Did you forget our lesson?” Shit.

“Liam! I’m so sorry mate! If you have a spare gym outfit I can be there in twenty?”

“You’re a lucky man Mr. Malik, I happen to have an extra t-shirt and joggers. You better get over here quick.”

\---

Every Friday night, Liam teaches a boxing lesson to various members of the gym he belongs to. It just so happens that he’s managed to rope Zayn, reluctant volunteer and ex-member of said gym, into a demonstration with him on this particular Friday.

He’s lucky Liam knows how to handle any situation gone awry, because by the time Zayn manages to get through the tube and into the workout uniform Liam throws at him, the lesson’s already halfway done.

“‘m so sorry Liam. Work just got away from me.” Liam’s taping up his hands as Zayn makes his apologies.

“It’s fine Zayn. What were you up to anyway? First bespoke customer?” Zayn nods, and Liam’s face lights up.

“Good work babe! What’s the order for?” Zayn rattles off the basics of the suit Harry’s ordered from him, Liam nodding along with interest.

“Sounds like a nice suit. Who’s the lucky customer?” Liam looks up at Zayn as he finishes off the last of the taping.

“‘m not really supposed to tell. He’s a bit private ‘n’ I don’t want to keep ‘im from trustin’ me,” Zayn stands up as Liam grabs the mitts helping Zayn slide them on.

"No problem mate," Liam says. He then slaps Zayn’s hands, standing up to go coerce one of his students into doing the taping for his own hands.

Zayn catches sight of the resident nurse/physio Louis walking up to the ring out of the corner of his eye, the guy nonchalantly leaning on the ropes framing the ring. Not a moment later, Zayn sees Liam go a special shade of cranberry red as he notices Louis’ presence.

It’s a task not to grin at Liam’s obvious crush; One that had been going on since Louis had first joined the gym. He’d snarked Liam out of his mind, easily grabbing his heart right out of the air. Surprisingly, the relationship had been a no go since then; Liam too shy to mention anything to Louis, and brash Louis reduced to teasing because he couldn’t get his act together.

Zayn hasn’t been at the gym enough to really get to know the man, but he’d witnessed the first meeting and gotten information from various other regulars who all groaned at how annoyingly cute the two of the were. Of course he feels protective over Liam, but it had been two years since Liam’s last break-up, and Zayn thinks that it’s past time he gets his shit together. Zayn firmly ignores his own dry-spell, and the new development in the shape of Harry Styles.

Zayn’s caught in thought, but still notices Louis edging closer to him, looking determined that Zayn will absolutely want to talk to him and incredibly uncomfortable.

“You’re Liam’s mate Zayn, right?” Zayn can’t help the way his eyes sneak a quick glance at Liam, nearly laughing at the way the man is pouting at him talking to Louis, causing the student who’s wrapping his hands to apologise profusely for doing whatever he think he’s doing wrong. Liam’s quick to reassure him before focusing back on Zayn and Louis.

Zayn’s feeling a little playful after such a successful day.

“Yeah man, Louis right? Liam’s been talking about you non-stop.” Louis looks surprised, but pleased. Zayn’s not really lying either; Liam doesn’t only talk about Louis, but he usually pops up in their conversations at least once a day.

“Does he really? I mean, I’m not surprised, I am very noticeable and an incredibly hard worker.” Louis’ looking a bit smug, but Zayn just hopes that this might be enough to get him to make a move and put Liam out of his misery.

“Yeah man, I mean, he tends to talk less about your work ethic and more about your…” Zayn gestures vaguely to all of Louis, watches as the man gets simultaneously annoyed and flustered. Apparently Louis’ brain has placed ‘affection’ and ‘irritation’ neatly next to one another. 

Liam’s voice rings out for Zayn, sounding a little higher than normal. The man always seems to know when Zayn’s up to something. 

“It was good to meet you Lou, hopefully I’ll be seeing more of you and Liam,” and he gives Louis a pat on the shoulder with his glove before carefully maneuvering himself into the ring.

He ignores Louis’ outraged scowl as he rolls his shoulders and faces Liam, who looks particularly suspicious. 

The bell dings.

\---

Zayn’s pretty out of practice, so by the time he heads back to the flat with Liam, his body’s extremely sore.

“You’re looking wasted, mate. Lucky I stayed away from your pretty face or you’d be sporting a bloody big bruise.” Zayn groans, trying not to think about all the high-class men who’d take one look at his broken face and walk right out of the store.

“I did do my best,” Zayn works his fingers into his left shoulder .“S’not as though I ‘aven’t been a bit too busy lately to practice,” Liam laughs at him, slapping Zayn on the shoulder.

“Congrats on your store, and your mystery customer. Remind me to take you out for drinks sometime this week,” Zayn grins but remembers all the work he has to do.

“I’d love to mate, but can it wait until after the Brits? It’s a bit of a rush order that I’m putting together, so I’m cramped for time,” Liam’s nodding, but his smile's gotten brighter and his eyes are crinkling.

“Are you telling me that your first bespoke suit is for a guy famous enough to be at The Brits? Zayn Malik you brilliant man,” and Zayn’s glad they’d both taken showers before they left the gym because Liam pulls him into a big hug. 

“Let’s get you back to your flat. I’ll probably crash there tonight. I don’t have a security gig tomorrow either so I might go with you to work, see if you need a hand or something,” Zayn probably won’t need Liam’s help, but it’s always nice to have him to talk to while he’s working.

“I feel like I have my own private body guard. Escorting me around while I cater to the rich and famous,” Liam’s got a quirk to his lip, but he’s serious when he says:

“You know I’d do just about anything to protect you Zayn. You’re the best mate a guy could ask for, we’re basically brothers, and as much as you know I’m not big on violence, I’m happy to make some exceptions.” Zayn smiles, leaning his head against Liam’s shoulder. 

When Zayn pulls away, Liam’s frowning. 

“So what did you talk about with Louis?” Zayn bursts into laughter at Liam, shaking him off and lengthening his strides. Liam stumbles to catch him, cursing. 

“Just looking out for your future mate!” Zayn throws at him.


	4. Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to take my computer in so a really short little chapter. :) next one should be up this weekend.
> 
> Striking is when you use chalk to outline the design on fabric.

Liam wakes Zayn up at six in the morning before he goes for his jog, but Zayn doesn’t get out of bed until he hears the kettle that Liam set to boil start whistling.

He hates mornings. 

He checks his phone for any messages (two from his mum, one from his sister) before he manages to haul himself out of bed to take the kettle off. He’d tried electric kettles, but Liam had complained that they never got Zayn out of bed because they’d turn off automatically and be stone cold by the time he got back from his jog.

He’s already going through the steps for Harry’s suit as he starts putting together his morning cuppa, realising that he’d never finished striking and cutting the fabrics yesterday. It means an easy morning, but a long afternoon as he starts in on the baste suit.

He gets together his tea and puts together a nice brekkie of eggs, toast, and turkey sausage, blessed to have Liam as a part-time flatmate who’s been so great about keeping everything afloat while Zayn tries to get his business going. He keeps the eggs and sausage on the counter while he grabs a quick shower and does his morning prayers, and is dressed, with Liam’s breakfast and tea on the table, by the time he comes in the door at seven. 

“Thanks mate. I’ll be ready at 7:30 and then we’ll get the tube to the Row.”

While Liam whips through his morning routine while Zayn peruses some of the fashion and celebrity magazines he has spread out on the table, taking careful note of emerging trends. It’s mostly just a distraction to keep from thinking about Harry Styles, which fails when he turns a page and Harry’s face is the centre of attention on the next page, right across from Niall’s in a full page spread on One Direction and the new looks they’re both wearing.

In some ways, it makes Zayn feel better about having a crush on Harry Styles, because the majority of the world seems to have a crush on Harry Styles. He’d been so shocked to see the man leaning outside his store that he genuinely hadn’t thought it was him at first.

While Zayn listens mostly to R&B, he’d have to be dead to not have at least some knowledge of the duo that had taken the music world by storm three years prior. It had been surreal to see Harry sitting on the second hand antique couch in his store looking at fabric samples, and Zayn is still reeling over being able to touch the man.

Zayn can certainly see why Harry gets so much attention; the man oozed charm, but still managed to stay out of schmoozer territory (it also certainly hadn’t hurt that he was so fit). While his shoulders certainly weren’t as broad as Zayn’s, the man was much thicker around the middle than Zayn was, professionally worked on by whoever coached Harry and Niall. 

And Zayn had been lucky enough to be on his knees with Harry in his pants right in front of him. 

Shaking the thoughts out of his head as marginally creepy, he looks up when Liam comes back into the room, wearing the waistcoat and trousers that Zayn had made for him as his final project at Newham. The lovely black pattern of the waistcoat is picked out here and there with gold thread, and while the back panel is done in the same sombre black, the interior is done in a vibrant gold pattern, as is the thread around the buttonholes. The trousers have been kept plain black as well, but Zayn snuck in some visual interest by bordering the pockets with the same gold that made up the interior back panel. He hadn’t bothered to make a suit jacket at the time, telling Liam that his body shape made the waistcoat work very well for him, but he had surprised Liam on his birthday with a stunning jacket and pocket square, all of which fit absolutely perfectly. Liam had laughed about not needing a fitting, but Zayn knew Liam better than he knew anyone, and fittings were hardly necessary (although there had been a couple of things he’d noticed which Liam had laughingly allowed him to fix).

“You ready?” Liam asks, quickly polishing off the last of his tea. Zayn stands up and heads towards the door, sitting down to pull on rubber shoe covers to protect from salt and road stains. His wool peacoat comes out of the closet, large and warm and followed by a scarf, and when Zayn’s ready, he turns to Liam and nods.

“Let’s go.”


End file.
